Finding Life and Love
by cinnysangel
Summary: Jonathan takes a different path when he finds out what really happened to Emily and Art.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own the rights to Bad Seed. This is an alternate ending to the movie. If you haven't seen it before you might want to avoid this fic until you see it because of spoilers. All OFC's are products of my own imagination. Any resemblance to people living or deceased is purely coincidental.**

**Chapter 1**

Jonathan Casey made his way down the tiled hallway of the hospital. He avoided eye contact with a woman in a hospital gown and bathrobe. She was twisting a strand of greasy bleached blond hair around her finger, muttering to herself. He saw the panicked look on her face, and the way she moved closer to the wall, terrified he would touch her. Lucy, a robust woman in her late forties, dressed in white scrubs, came out from behind the desk. She gave Jonathan a reassuring look before stepping between him and the woman.

"You're okay Kathy. Everything is just fine. Why don't we go to the TV room? You like the TV room."

He waited until Lucy guided the woman down the hall and out of sight. He stalled because he didn't want to hurry to his final session with Dr. Fisher. He thought about Kathy. She heard voices and talked to them more than she talked to living breathing human beings. Although Jonathan was out of his mind when he came here he wasn't like Kathy. The only voices he heard were haunting memories of people no longer with him. And then there was his own voice, telling him how he screwed up Art's and Emily's life. His guilty voice was the loudest. Jonathan had stayed in his room during those early days. The nurses had a hard time forcing him out of bed. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He couldn't open up to any of the other patients because in his mind they had real problems, all he had were ones he created for himself. He used sleep as an escape, hoping one day they would let him out so he could finally end it all. Months of therapy had changed that. He didn't have too much hope for happiness in the future, but he had grown to accept his fate. What changed for him was the fact that he realized he deserved to suffer and killing himself was a cop-out.

With the hallway now empty he had no excuse to keep the doctor waiting. Slowly he dragged himself down the corridor. At the opposite end of the hallway, away from the patient's rooms was a counseling room. The walls were painted the same antique white as the rest of the hospital. The entire place was a sea of dull white. Even the chairs lacked color. The windows were curtain less, covered only by blinds, beige and boring. The paintings, nailed firmly to the wall, were faded watercolor prints, easily forgotten and not worth a second glance. The door to the counseling room was the color steel grey and housed a single wired window. Jonathan knew it was fire safety glass popular in old facilities as this one. The door was a key card entry with a buzzer inside. Jonathan used the knuckle of his middle finger to tap three times on the glass. A buzz and lock release was his only answer.

Dr. Fisher was occupying a hard plastic chair, sitting behind a table. The only other piece of furniture in the room was another plastic chair. The man continued to stare at a folder while gesturing with an open hand for Jonathan to sit down. Jonathan barely settled into the chair when his doctor began speaking.

"Son, you tried to kill yourself. I want to make sure you are prepared for this."

He remained silent for a long time thinking about his life and what happened before landing in the mental hospital. He didn't need the trigger that Dr. Fisher threw at him. Emily. Emily was gone because of Art. And Art, well Art was gone too… because of Emily.

Jonathan finally looked up. He had studied the doctor over the last six months. He knew every line on his face, every dark spot on his thick fingers. He had grown accustom to his tweed suits, nauseating cologne, and the way the man sounded like he was snoring while he looked down at his charting. "I would be lying if I said I was one hundred percent ready Dr. Fischer." Jonathan picked at a nick in the pressed wood table top. He had done that very thing every day for the last one hundred and eighty four days.

Dr. Fisher nodded; his cue for Jonathan to continue talking.

At first Jonathan thought these conversations should be two sided so he would barely talk. He waited for the doctor to tell him how to feel, and how he should deal with everything that happened. He didn't understand that therapy was a way for him to figure it out on his own. The session always ended with Dr. Fisher giving him tips, pointers, and sometimes exercises to do to work through the pain and loss.

Still feeling awkward Jonathan ran through his plans. "All the arrangements are made. I'm staying at the group home for now…until the house sells."

"You are still going to sell it?"

Jonathan looked at Dr. Fisher wondering if he heard judgment in his voice. "You don't think I should sell the house?"

The man looked up at him, stopped writing and made eye contact. He steepled his fingers, pen still in hand. "How do you feel about selling the house?"

"Dr. Fisher, for one second could you stop being my doctor? Just give me some friendly advice. I don't have anyone. No family, no friends that I can ask if I'm doing the right thing."

Dr. Fisher looked back at his chart talking to it more than his patient. "Jonathan, the patient doctor relationship…"

"No… no you're right, forget I asked. I think I'm ready to go now." Jonathan stood up; he extended his hand to the man, thanking him for his help.

.

.

The process of discharge was long. Jonathan spent that time looking out the window in his room, wondering what it would feel like to once again be on the outside. By late afternoon two orderlies escorted him to the lobby. They had the decency to call a cab for him at least. Jonathan climbed into the backseat, taking one last look at the brick building he called home. He only seen the exterior once before, the day they brought him here. He counted the windows on the second floor, finding the one he spent countless hours staring out of. Somehow he didn't feel sad for leaving, quite the opposite. He felt like he was escaping from prison. He worried that if he didn't leave now they would come out and drag him back inside.

"Where to?" The cab driver barked as if he was annoyed.

Jonathan realized the man had asked him a couple of times prior to this one. He gave his address out of habit. That wasn't right, he was supposed to go to the group home, but as the driver headed in the direction of his house Jonathan decided he would finally go home.

He forgot about the lock on the front door for the Realtor. Luckily for him it was easy enough to climb through a window. The house didn't look the same. Everything he had owned was packed up in boxes, stored in the crawl space. Jonathan pulled the ladder down climbing up into the attic. He hoped maybe he could find a change of clothing for himself and some personal items he needed. Most importantly he wanted to find his journal. He froze, unable to pull himself up into the small space because he was confronted with a box directly in front of him. Written across the side in black marker were the words, "Art's room" Images of finding Art dead flashed in Jonathan's mind. Then the memory of Emily came. He wasn't the one to find her yet he could see it clearly. His overactive imagination wouldn't quit creating the scene of her hurt, and lying on the floor dying. Jonathan barely touched the rungs as he climbed back down. He pushed the ladder back up and slammed the hatch closed. With shaking hands he grabbed his car keys, fleeing the house.

After a couple of tries his car roared to life. Jonathan had twenty five dollars in his wallet and five grand in the bank. He assumed his credit card was still good. There was no way he could stay at the house. He realized that now. He also didn't want to go to the group home. That seemed like a good idea when he was locked up. But now…now that he had a taste of freedom he wanted to spread his wings and see if he could make it on his own. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that he wasn't going to spend a lot of time staring at the four walls again. There was always a motel and if he couldn't get a room he would sleep in the car tonight. Thoughts of Emily and Art swirled in his mind, painfully dancing across his memory. He had to say goodbye sooner than later or risk ending up the way he was back when they locked him up. The trouble with saying goodbye was each time he tried the memories refused to leave him alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He drove until he was almost out of gas. The way he was feeling, he didn't think it would be a good idea to pull into a gas station, not after what happened. Luckily Jonathan found the only working phone booth with a phonebook still intact. It was conveniently located down the street from his office. He hoped it was somewhat up to date. He could walk right up to the door, but how would that turn out. He figured nothing good would happen if he did.

He answered on the first ring. As soon as he heard his voice Jonathan said his name. "Dick"

A long pause and then Dick spoke. "Jonathan, where… are you?"

"A block from your office."

"I still have my gun." Dick listened to the silence on the line for a few minutes thinking maybe they might have been disconnected or the kid decided it wasn't a good idea to call. A heavy sigh told him Jonathan was still there.

"Dick, I just need someone to talk to."

Dick was shocked when he saw Jonathan walk into his office. It was like he hadn't changed at all. That thought put Dick on edge. He knew the young man had spent time in a nut ward. He didn't know he had been released. "What are you doing here?" He leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Can I sit down?"

"Go ahead, but remember I'm not lying about the gun. And this time you little prick, I won't think twice about shooting you!" To prove the point Dick lifted his t-shirt showing the hand gun.

Jonathan shook his head. Dick was giving him such attitude. Something made him egg Dick on. Mentally he asked himself if he hoped irritating Dick would get the man to shoot him. "How's Preston?"

Dick sat up suddenly, slamming his fist down on the desk. "How's Preston? How the fuck do you think he is? Locked up, like you should be!"

"Why? I didn't kill any one! He killed my brother! Don't you remember that?"

"Yeah I remember. He finished what you started or don't you remember hitting your brother? Dick was on his feet, his fists still on the desk as he leaned over it yelling in Jonathan's face. "And while we're taking the trip down memory lane, how's about attempted murder, assault and battery, kidnapping? Should I go on?"

The reminders Dick shouted at him brought all the pain and frustrations back instantly. It was enough to make Jonathan slump in his seat. "I'm sorry, for all of it." He covered his face with both hands. The truth tumbled from him. "I shouldn't have bothered you. I didn't know what to do. I can't go home, the bakery's closed. I can't even put gas in my fucking car."

Dick could hear the heartbreak in Jonathan's voice. He hated to admit it, he felt sorry for him. He still was pissed as hell, but he did know the kid lost everything that mattered to him. "Listen do you need a couple of bucks?"

"No, I have money." Jonathan stood, threw the cash on the desk and then added his credit cards to the pile. "I can't go to the gas station. Just forget it. Call me a cab. I'll get my car some other time. No, you know what, just keep it. What the hell am I going to do with a car I'm too afraid to fill up with gas?"

"Wait. Sit down." When Jonathan refused Dick pointed the gun at him. "I said sit down!"

Jonathan threw his hands in the air, plopping into the seat. "Figures… go ahead Dick, shoot me. I know you want to."

"I'm not going to shoot you, but I should." Dick flexed his hand to remind Jonathan that he owed him one for stabbing him. Dick grabbed his jacket. "Take me to dinner, your treat. I'll put gas in your car, also your treat."

.

They sat in an all-night diner. Jonathan slumped in his seat watching as Dick shoveled eggs into his mouth and sipped a cup of coffee.

"Where you going after this? What are you planning on doing?"

Jonathan barely touched his food. "Why are you still doing that job? I thought getting into other people's business was dangerous."

"You going to eat that?" Dick pointed at Jonathan's omelet.

Jonathan shook his head, pushing the plate across the table to Dick. The waitress came by with more coffee. She smiled at Jonathan. "Is something wrong with your food, sugar?"

"No. I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself. You want some desert?" She asked Jonathan, ignoring Dick.

Jonathan shook his head again. His stomach was barely tolerating the coffee.

Dick looked up, held the fork halfway between his mouth and the plate. "Pie, cherry, thanks." The waitress made a face of disgust while walking away.

Jonathan twirled a cigarette between his fingers. He hadn't smoked in months. He thought about taking a drag but the no smoking sign above the desert case coupled with the fact that he didn't trust himself with matches or a lighter stopped him. "You keep eating like that you're going to have a heart attack."

Dick shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth. "The way I see it, I beat death. Now it's all about living."

Jonathan tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "I wasn't going to kill you."

"Yeah but you would have."

Jonathan thought about that for a minute. "Probably, if you stood in the way of me killing Preston."

.

Dick let Jonathan's words hang in the air for a few minutes. "And what good would it have done if you killed him? It won't bring your brother back… or her. Wait, you were always planning on it weren't you? Off yourself…end it all. That's it… murder/suicide. And what about me? You were going to leave me to rot and die in that goddamn trunk."

Dick touched a nerve making Jonathan stare at his hands instead of looking the older man in the eye. He spoke softly surprising himself with his honesty. "No, I was going to let you out. I figured you'd go straight to the cops and by the time they got there…"

"What stopped you?"

"The truth! Preston didn't kill her." He thought about his willingness to talk about his plans to kill himself. He assumed since therapy helped him open up he couldn't stop talking about it. There was nothing left to hide. His affair with a married woman, his guilt over hurting his brother, and his failed attempt at dying, it was all out in the open now. He lifted his eyes, looking at Dick for a long moment before speaking. "I want to see him. I want to see Preston."

Dick set his fork down. He pushed the plate to the side. Putting both hands on the table he leaned in speaking low but stern. "I can't let you do that."

"I'm not going to hurt him. I just want to know why he turned himself in. He didn't have to. If anything it looked like I killed my brother after I had killed Emily."

"But you didn't. He knows that and he feels like it's his fault she died."

Jonathan shook his head. "No it's my fault. I shouldn't have left my car keys there. I shouldn't have argued with her in front of Art. I shouldn't have been with her in the first place."

Dick couldn't believe how things had changed. Before both of these men had blamed each other, now they only blamed themselves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

True to his word Dick put gas in Jonathan's car while the young man nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Dick wanted to know why the hospital would have let him out if he was this jumpy on his own. "Where are you going tonight?"

"I think I'll sleep in my car. I'll check into a motel in the morning."

Dick thumped a thick finger against his forehead and then raised it into the air like he had a moment of brilliance and was going to spout a life changing idea. "No, you know what; you'll sleep on the couch at the office, this way I can keep an eye on you."

Johnathan watched him work out the arrangements in his head except what was in his head transferred to his hands. Dick was very animated when he was anxious. "I told you, I'm not going to do anything."

"I know. But I don't think you need to be alone tonight. The head shrinker give you any of those happy pills?" Dick thumped his forehead again.

"Something to help me sleep, but I don't take anti-depressants." He didn't tell the man it was because he didn't want to take them.

Dick climbed behind the wheel of Jonathan's car."You swallow one of them, have a good night sleep and tomorrow I'll help you work this shit out."

.

On the way back to the office Dick drove near the bakery. Jonathan asked him to stop there for a minute. Inside, everything was cleaned up and covered. Jonathan yanked a tarp off of one of the round tables. He took a seat while Dick fiddled around behind the counter. "The Sugar Bee huh? Let me ask you something, why did you call it that?"

"Because I must be some kind of fucking poet." Jonathan didn't want to explain the meaning behind the name. His grandmother, the only woman in his life that never failed him, besides the fact that she up and died without warning when he was barely eighteen, had given the place its name. The bakery was her dream. "Look Dick I appreciate this but you don't need to stick around. I promise I won't light myself on fire. Okay?"

"Listen asshole…" He waved a wooden spoon at Jonathan. "Anytime you want to turn yourself into a Roman fucking candle I'll light the match for you, as long as you don't drag everyone else down too."

"Thanks Dick you're a real pal. A regular stand up fucking guy."

.

Dick put the spoon back into a jar before walking around the bakery, finally coming to a stop in front of the counter. He ran his index finger through a layer of dust. "In the meantime why don't you clean this shit up? Make it into something again. Or are you too much of a romantic pussy to do it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you got to stop hanging on to the past. So what that you had another man's wife upstairs and banged the shit out of her while Preston was off being an asshole! You got to forget it and move the fuck on. She's gone get over it!"

Jonathan was on his feet in an instant."Don't talk about Emily like that! You don't know what we had. You don't know shit!"

"I know what you had. I saw the tape. I saw the two of you together and all she could talk about was how she loved her husband. You were just a fucking piece of ass to a very bored woman."

"No! Fuck you! Get the fuck out of here before I…"

"Before you what? What are you going to do Jonathan?"

"Just leave, alright? Just go! Get out of here!"

.

Dick left and Jonathan picked up the chair he was sitting on, tossing it across the room. He stood there for a while fuming. He had more than just a sleazy relationship with Emily. It had to be more than that. He loved her and she loved him. Didn't she? Frustrated Jonathan grabbed a rag and tore into cleaning the kitchen. By five in the morning the entire bakery was clean and set up for business. Everything was ready, everything but the supplies to bake. Two in the morning Jonathan had called for a pizza and a six pack of beer. It sat on the counter untouched because he couldn't bring himself to stop cleaning long enough to eat. Now that it was done and the sun was coming up he was starving and thirsty. He grabbed both items and headed to the loft.

.

The place was exactly as he had left it, all but the perishable items. Jonathan plopped onto the mattress, opened a beer downing half of it in one swallow. He took a couple of bites of cold pizza and finished the rest of the beer he had opened. His eyes fell on the picture of Emily and him. Jonathan used to love this picture. He snapped it with his cellphone one day while they sat together. He printed it and framed it for her as a gift and she had put it by the bed. He knew she couldn't take it with her so he happily accepted the fact that she put it up here. He studied the picture hoping to see something to prove Dick wrong. Her smile was large and bright and her eyes danced with laughter. He was looking at her like she hung the moon and stars in the night sky, yet Emily was watching the camera. Her smile was not directed at him like the way he stared at her.

"Could I have been so blind? Was Dick right?" Frustrated he put the picture back, laying it face down. He took off his shoes and shirt before mimicking the face down position of the picture. He buried his face into the pillow giving into the emotions he struggled to suppress these past few months.


End file.
